A blizzard of people drifting
Brushing past almost fifty diverse souls
Every minute
To find a path of joy
For the path, there is oblivion to the goal
Chasing an illusion
To attain what they have
Entering skins of puppets
Slogging, not stopping
Mechanical creatures
Is it for
Attention, or mere survival
A thirst, thirst for power
Approval, apraisal
Is it for

Sooner or later
A decaying body
Amidst mounds of possesion
A decaying body
Which never once laughed